


Lover's Eyes

by kam



Series: Lover's Eyes [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-23
Updated: 2012-12-23
Packaged: 2017-11-22 02:20:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/604744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kam/pseuds/kam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Johnlock in its simplest form - they kiss, they have sex, they fall in love... Everything you could ever want (aside from kink. Sorry.)<br/>Part 1 of 3</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It started, of course, the night of the semtex vest. As they stumbled outside, hailed a cab, negotiated the stairs, and finally tumbled through the door to the flat, Sherlock didn’t once look away from John, constantly searching for some hidden danger, some missed injury. They moved from the front door to the sitting room, shedding shoes, socks, coats, a scarf, and a jumper on their way. John collapsed onto the sofa, letting out an impossibly long sigh. Sherlock remained standing, eyes still searching John.

“That was a close one, eh,”

John chuckled half-heartedly and dropped his head back against the sofa, closing his eyes. Sherlock scanned the line of his neck, and a thought struck him with almost physical force. John’s words echoed in his ears, ‘that was a close one,’ and he realised that _he could have lost John_. The likelihood of that had always been slim, he would have worked any situation to maximize John’s chances of survival, regardless of the effect on his own. _But it could have happened._ John could have died, and Sherlock would not have been able to stop it.

 

John sat up when Sherlock gasped, focusing his tired eyes on his best friend. Sherlock’s eyes were distant, he was lost in thought – playing scenarios, it looked like, running through his ‘what ifs’. That was dangerous, John knew that all too well, so he stood, crossed the room, and grabbed Sherlock’s arm. Pale grey eyes locked on his blue ones, and Sherlock opened his mouth but didn’t speak.

“It’s alright,”

John reassured, squeezing his arm gently.

“I’m fine.”

Sherlock’s eyes raked over John’s face, looking for something, some secret, some answer, and John just smiled.

“It’s alright,”

he repeated, and Sherlock pressed his lips to John’s.

 

John didn’t kiss back. His mouth remained still and closed against Sherlock’s, but that was alright, that was fine, because he _would_. He had to. He wasn’t pulling away, wasn’t pushing Sherlock back, wasn’t fighting. And _that, that_ was all that mattered.

 

Sherlock’s lips were soft, but there was the barest hint of stubble along his upper lip, and John wasn’t quite sure how to feel about that.

 

When Sherlock pulled back, John looked up into his eyes, studying. Sherlock held his gaze, not sure what he wanted but doing his best to provide it.

“Why,”

John finally asked.

“You could have died tonight.”

“But I didn’t.”

“Your life is in danger every day. This has only increased since you moved in with me.”

“Honestly, Sherlock, if Afghanistan couldn’t kill me, what makes you think London can?”

Sherlock came up with eleven reasons in the time it took him to decide that, rather than list them off, he would prefer to kiss John again.

 

This. This was… This was actually rather nice. Sherlock’s lips against John’s were soft, not hesitant, not quite, but… Tentative? Is that different? Must be. Sherlock’s kiss was tentative, and John could feel him waiting. To his credit, it took him exactly no time to deduce what Sherlock was waiting for – he wanted John to kiss back. John wasn’t ready to, not just yet. He could admit that this was nice – quite nice, actually, truth be told – but that didn’t mean he was ready to participate. He just… He needed… Well, he needed a moment to _think_ , to _process_ , damnit, because not everyone is as bloody brilliant and quick as Sherlock, and normal people sometimes need to just take a moment and… Oh. Well.

 

John began to kiss back, and Sherlock immediately relocated ‘serial murder’ to the number two spot on his list of favorite things.

 

This was good. This was… Normally, when John was frustrated with Sherlock, all he could do was make himself a cup of tea and brood about it for a bit. But even with the tea and John’s naturally forgiving outlook, it still took a good deal of time for the frustration to entirely dissipate. This… The gentleness of Sherlock’s lips, the feeling of his breath across John’s skin, the very, very subtle longing that John swore he could _taste_ … Sherlock was essentially kissing away the frustration, and John could not manage to be bothered by that. It was a terrible precedent to set, especially with Sherlock Holmes, but there didn’t seem to be much to be done about it.

 

John was surprisingly pliant, despite having vastly more experience in this subject. Sherlock had kissed a few girls (and then a few boys) when he was much younger, to see what all the fuss was about. He had found it not unpleasant, but he very quickly determined that the level of work required to maintain a relationship which would allow him to kiss someone at will was beyond what he was willing to expend on something that was merely a bit of fun. He occasionally revisited this conclusion, but had never found kissing someone to be quite this enjoyable. This was, of course, in part due to the chemicals still racing through his system, but he hypothesized that it was also a bit because of… Well, just because of John.

 

John broke the kiss, of course. Left up to Sherlock, they would likely have been there the whole night. What was left of it, anyway. After several moments of silence, John finally managed,

“Right, then.”

Sherlock raised a brow, grey eyes studying John’s face intently.

“So this is all because I could have died tonight?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes before he could stop himself.

“ _Honestly_ , John,”

his voice was a bit breathier than normal, John filed that away.

“I _told_ you…”

“You told me that I could have died tonight and my life is in danger because I live with you. Then you kissed me.”

Sherlock waved his hands in frustration, as if to dissipate John’s words.

“I was quite _clear_ …”

“You were not.”

Sherlock frowned, and his jaw twitched a bit.

“It is _obvious_ that…”

“No, it isn’t.”

 

Sherlock grabbed John’s chin, tilting his face up and crowding into his space.

“I could lose you at any moment,”

he whispered fiercely, and John didn’t cut him off.

“It is only logical to have as much of you as I can before that happens.”

John’s tongue poked out to wet his lips, and Sherlock’s eyes darted down to watch it. He felt a surge of possessiveness, but this was somehow _more_. He was quite used to feeling possessive, particularly when it came to John. This was… This was not about John belonging _with_ Sherlock, about John being there to interest and assist and take care of him. This was about John belonging _to_ Sherlock. And that was probably exponentially more not good.

 

John allowed Sherlock three more kisses before insisting that Sherlock had to either let him go to bed or take him there himself. It took Sherlock a few minutes (eons, in Sherlock’s time) to process that one, and in that time, John pressed a quick kiss to his half-open mouth and climbed the stairs. He stripped down to his pants and crawled into bed, yawning, turning over once, and falling asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, my god. What am I doing. I'm so sorry, I don't know. I just.
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Any feedback is welcome.  
> Please be gentle - this wasn't beta'd and it's my first attempt at this stuff.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is more kissing in this one.

Sherlock was terrified. He was not used to _needing_ anything, not really. Air, alright, but Sherlock had even bent that one a bit – he could hold his breath for 192 seconds, far longer than the average human. Food, occasionally, but he could always put that off, could always eat _later_. Sleep irked him more than the others. Every so often he had to stop whatever he was doing and _sleep_. It was a bloody great waste of time, and Sherlock found absolutely no pleasure in it. These were the things Sherlock _needed_ , and they were bad enough. Needs are weaknesses. If you need something, it can be withheld. Food, air, and sleep can only be withheld for so long, however, before the body shuts down and becomes suddenly useless. John was different. Without food or air, his body would shut down, and that wasn’t so bad. Without John, his mind would shut down, and _that_ was unacceptable.

 

John was not scared. Despite his long history of heterosexuality (and his frequent and loud reminders thereof) he felt quite comfortable with the kisses, and their implications. Sherlock was a great man. Sherlock was brilliant. Sherlock was… Sherlock was _different_. Since that first day, when Sherlock had deduced and declared John’s life story, had seen and seen through John, all of him, and rather than rejecting him, rather than declaring him _broken_ or _useless_ or even _ordinary_ , Sherlock had declared him _interesting_. Him. John Watson, with his close-set blue eyes and his close-cropped sandy hair. John Watson, with his nine jumpers (eight now) that he wore in a steady rotation. John Watson, who had never done a single goddamn remarkable thing in his life, besides getting shot. Sherlock believed him to be interesting. And if Sherlock believed it, it must be true.

 

Sherlock was at a loss. He was… _Feeling_ things, things he didn’t recognize, things that didn’t make _sense_. Normally, when he didn’t understand feelings, he would talk to John. But these particular ones were _about_ John, so that seemed like a not-good idea. He couldn’t talk to Lestrade, who was often his second choice, as that would involve admitting to having _feelings_ about John, and he wasn’t prepared to bring that to work. The same logic ruled out Molly, who would also almost certainly immediately tell John. Mycroft wasn’t even worth considering – he wasn’t even worth _mentioning_ in this context, and Sherlock promptly deleted having thought of him. But who, then?

 

John heard Sherlock storming up the stairs, and he collected his coat in anticipation of a case. He was prepared to leave the flat, prepared to run about London, prepared to shoot or be shot at. He wasn’t prepared for Sherlock to grab his jumper, pull him close, and kiss him. He wasn’t complaining, mind. Sherlock hadn’t kissed him in three days, not since That Night, as John thought of it. He hadn’t pushed the matter, assuming Sherlock was working it over. But he _wanted_. After that initial shock, he had realized how _good_ kissing Sherlock felt. Being kissed by Sherlock, anyway. It was something he definitely wanted more of, preferably on a regular basis, at least for the foreseeable future. In light of all this, he kissed back enthusiastically, pressing up on tiptoe and resting his hands on Sherlock’s hips.

 

John made a very strange noise when Sherlock pulled away – it was a cross between a whine and a growl, and Sherlock was not quite sure what to make of it. He looked down at John, whose cheeks were flushed pink. His eyes were dilated but still very blue. His lips were very slightly swollen, and it was quite clear that he had just been kissed. Also, that he had enjoyed it. Sherlock sighed, tracing a finger across John’s lower lip. John met his eyes steadily, darting his tongue out to lick very briefly at the pad of Sherlock’s finger.

“Mrs. Hudson informed me that I am in love with you.”

John’s eyes widened in surprise, and his mouth dropped open.

“I am inclined to defer to her on this matter, as she has vastly more experience than I do.”

John closed his mouth, biting his lip and studying Sherlock’s face.

“I don’t know what to do,”

he admitted, his voice almost a whisper.

“This is… _Exceedingly_ irrational. It defies logic, it makes no sense. _I can’t figure it out_.”

John fought a smile, reaching up to cup Sherlock’s face.

“You don’t have to fight it, you know. It won’t ever make sense, but that’s… It’s fine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sure none of you saw _that_ coming.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is sex-type-stuff in this one.

John couldn’t honestly say he was terribly surprised, not by Sherlock’s feelings and certainly not by his own. It wasn’t something that had ever occurred to him, of course, but once it was suggested… It seemed so bloody _obvious_. Of course he was in love with Sherlock. It was really the only sensible thing. Sherlock had saved him, had brought him back. Sherlock had _fixed_ him. And, slowly but surely, Sherlock had insinuated himself into every aspect of John’s life. Normally, this would have bothered John – he was all for closeness in a relationship, but there had been women who had tried to… Well, to take over. And John refused to stand for that, that was a step too far. Sherlock, though, Sherlock had taken over, and John didn’t mind at all. He _wanted_ Sherlock to be a part of everything. He’d like a little more privacy, true, but he honestly couldn’t think of a single thing he didn’t want Sherlock involved in. Yes, it was perfectly clear that John loved Sherlock. And Sherlock loved John, or so he said. And if Sherlock believed it, it must be true.

 

John’s lips were soft and sweet under Sherlock’s, his touch was gentle, calm, and Sherlock was ready to crawl out of his skin. He pulled back, looking down into John’s eyes. John smiled back up at him, unperturbed.

“Wrong,”

Sherlock hissed, and John took an unconscious step back, his face falling for just a second before he caught himself.

“It’s…”

“ _This_ isn’t what I want,”

Sherlock growled, stepping forward to close the distance again.

“We don’t have to…”

John stepped back again, farther this time, putting a bit more space between their bodies. Sherlock followed him again, and they continued back like this, John’s eyebrows climbing ever higher, until his back hit the wall and Sherlock darted forward, pinning him. One hand came to rest next to John’s head, supporting his weight as he leant in, tilting John’s chin up.

“We do,”

he insisted, cocking his head to the side and studying John’s eyes.

“We… We do what?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and huffed out an exasperated breath.

“We. Do. Have. To. Do. This.”

 

John felt entirely incapable of forming a real word. The majority of his faculties were busy ticking away at what Sherlock had just said – that is, the majority of his faculties that hadn’t shut down or short circuited when Sherlock had pressed him up against the wall, which was, in fact, quite a lot of them. Long moments ticked by, Sherlock’s words hanging in the air between them, his eyes dark and curious, impatient, waiting for an answer to what wasn’t _really_ a question.

“Yes,”

John finally managed to force out, because Sherlock was, once again, right. They _did_ have to do this. Sherlock’s lips _had_ to crash down against John’s while his hand tightened on John’s chin, holding his head at that oh-so-slightly uncomfortable angle. John’s hands _had_ to shoot out, _had_ to grip at Sherlock’s waist, pulling him closer, closer, until their bodies were flush together. Sherlock _had_ to lick at John’s lips, impatient as ever, until John opened his mouth to him (which, incidentally, John _had_ to do.) There was really just no way around it, no getting away from the sound Sherlock made when John sucked gently on his tongue, or the one John made when Sherlock slid his knee between John’s legs, pressing his thigh against John.

 

Sherlock _wanted_. He _wanted_ , and it was deep and it burned and it was awful. Sherlock had _wanted_ before, though. Never quite this badly, but still. What mattered was that John was not the first person Sherlock had _wanted_. He was, however, the first person Sherlock had _needed_. And that was much worse.

 

John was not going to let this get out of hand. He was not going to rush this. He didn’t know, but he strongly suspected Sherlock had never done _this_ before (not that John had, in this capacity, but the basic idea was the same, right?), and he was going to take this slow, make sure Sherlock was comfortable and _ready_ for everything that happened. He was absolutely, definitely _not_ going to let tonight be anything more than what it was now – arguably the single most intense snog of John’s life. It would go no further, though. Not tonight. No matter how good Sherlock’s mouth tasted, or how the noises, the bloody _noises_ he made seemed to go straight to John’s cock, or how Sherlock’s long, delicate, and deceptively strong fingers were holding onto John tight enough to bruise. John was a soldier and _nothing_ could break his resolve, not even… Not even…

 

Sherlock was barely even aware of the movement of his hips. He just _needed_... He needed _something_. Had his brain been functioning normally, he would have realized right off that what he _needed_ was friction, stimulation, but at least half of his brain function seemed to have gone offline when John opened his mouth to Sherlock’s tongue. So he was surprised when John moaned _right into his mouth_ and tightened his hands around Sherlock’s waist, dragging him impossibly closer and grinding their hips together. Not just their hips, actually, and Sherlock had to break away from the kiss to gasp, as all the air in the room seemed to have suddenly… Gone. John used his newfound freedom to latch his lips and teeth onto Sherlock’s neck, biting and sucking at the join of his shoulder, all the while keeping up that delicious grind which made Sherlock feel so… So _much_.

 

Fucking hell, but at this rate, John was going to come in his bloody pants like a bloody teenager. They needed to stop. They needed to… John forced himself to pull back from Sherlock’s neck, then let himself sink down the wall to sit at Sherlock’s feet, gasping for the air that Sherlock seemed intent on using all of. Sherlock braced himself against the wall with both hands, letting his head hang down between his arms, just breathing. John reached out as an afterthought and wrapped his hand around Sherlock’s ankle, determined to keep contact, wanting to reassure Sherlock that everything was still fine.

“Why,”

Sherlock’s voice was ragged, deeper even than it normally was.

“Air,”

John breathed, squeezing his ankle.

“Slow down.”

Sherlock crouched, staring into John’s eyes.

“I don’t _want_ to slow down.”

John grinned, reaching out to cup Sherlock’s face.

“I know. But we have to.”

 

Sherlock could feel what John would call a ‘major strop’ coming on.

“Why,”

he demanded. He saw no good reason to ‘slow down.’ His head was clearing rapidly, and he wanted it to stop. He wanted that breathless cloudiness back, wanted to stop _thinking_ again. John could give him that. John _would_ give him that. Why should he wait?

 

John saw the strop coming. He stroked his thumb along Sherlock’s cheek, leaning forward to kiss him gently.

“This is going to be more than a quick fuck against the wall.”

Sherlock huffed, rolling his eyes.

“You mean more than that,”

John murmured.

“Obviously,”

Sherlock pouted.

“But there will be plenty of time for that _later_. I want this _now_.”

John felt himself grow impossibly harder, and he groaned and slid his hand back to tangle in Sherlock’s curls, dragging the other man forward to kiss him again. Sherlock fumbled for a moment, drawn half-into John’s lap, before finding a stable position and kissing back, pressing harder and harder, pleading silently for more. Against his better judgment (which was rapidly fading, anyway,) John used his free hand to reach down and open Sherlock’s flies. His deft fingers found their way into Sherlock’s pants, and Sherlock bit down hard on John’s lip when his hand made contact. He pulled off of John’s lips with a broken moan, hips already moving. John guided Sherlock’s head to his shoulder, stroking the other man’s neck and back with one hand while the other established a rhythm, awkward at first due to the angle. But John figured it out quickly. He was clever at _some_ things, after all.

 

Sherlock was lost, he was completely gone. His hips snapped convulsively against John’s hand. He clung to John’s neck, his face buried in the join of his shoulder, his lips moving restlessly, forming words no one would ever hear. If he hadn’t been almost completely robbed of his senses, he might have been embarrassed by how little time it took before he took one final breath and buried his teeth in John’s shoulder, his hips stuttering and his semen splashing over John’s hand and the floor. John was, of course, there to catch him when he fell – crumpled, really. John was there with soothing noises and strong arms and soft kisses against Sherlock’s cheek and temples and jaw. John was there.

 

It quickly became clear that Sherlock had no present plans of moving. He curled quite happily into John, his face still buried in John’s shoulder, his arms still wound around John’s neck. John sighed, shifting to slip one arm under Sherlock’s knees and get his legs beneath him, lifting himself and Sherlock mainly through sheer force of will. Once he was standing, his arms full of Sherlock, he briefly (very briefly) considered putting Sherlock to bed and retreating to his room. But he had earned one night in Sherlock’s bed, if nothing else, so he carefully navigated Sherlock’s impossibly long limbs through the flat and into his bedroom. He tried to be gentle as he set Sherlock on his bed, but the prat decided that was the time to roll over, and he fell against the sheets with a muffled groan. John rolled his eyes, stripping Sherlock’s trousers and pants away, rolling him over to unbutton and remove his shirt. He found a pair of pyjama bottoms on the floor and slid them up Sherlock’s impossible legs before pulling the cover out and settling it over his body. After that, he retreated to the toilet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um. I don't really know how to write sexy-times. Sorry.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is more sex-type-stuff in this one.

Sherlock woke up with his arms full of John Watson. This was unprecedented. Sherlock had absolutely no idea what to do, so, after running several scenarios, he settled for kissing John awake. John stirred slowly, trying to turn away at first. When he opened his eyes and saw Sherlock above him, he smiled.

“Kiss me,”

Sherlock demanded, and John rolled his eyes but complied. Sherlock could feel the smile against his lips, and found he rather enjoyed that. John should always smile. John should always be happy, should always be pleased with him. John should always be his.

 

After a few minutes, when Sherlock showed no signs of letting up, John pushed him gently back.

“Why,”

Sherlock’s eyes were hazy and confused, and John couldn’t help but kiss him again.

“I need the toilet.”

Sherlock pouted and flopped back against the pillows, apparently personally insulted by John’s bodily functions. John rolled his eyes and slipped out of bed, hurrying to the toilet and taking an extra minute to brush his teeth. When he returned, Sherlock was in the same position, arms flung wide, his entire body screaming annoyance. John crawled in next to him, taking advantage of his position to lick a stripe up that impossibly long neck. Sherlock shuddered, fisting one hand in John’s vest. John found the mark he had made the night before, suckling gently at it, nipping a bit, darkening it from red to purple. He had a desire that he didn’t entirely understand to mark Sherlock, to leave some sort of proof that Sherlock had belonged to him, at least for one night.

 

“Don’t be ridiculous,”

Sherlock’s voice rumbled out, morning-deep, and he felt John nip a bit harder.

“I have made it quite clear that I intend this to last more than one night.”

John sighed against Sherlock’s neck, and Sherlock took advantage of his sudden relaxation to roll them over, straddling John’s hips. He took a moment to look at John. He saw the bite mark he had left in John’s shoulder, right next to the scar which was peeking out from the strap of his vest. He traced the scar absentmindedly as he studied John’s eyes (dilated,) his lips (swollen, dry,) his breathing (accelerated,) his pulse (rapid,) and his arousal (currently poking Sherlock in the hip.) Satisfactory, all of it. More than satisfactory.

“I believe,”

Sherlock pitched his voice low, let it rumble out of his chest,

“that I ‘owe you one’.”

 

John’s eyes fell shut as Sherlock swooped down to kiss him fiercely, his hands fisting in the sheets. Sherlock rolled his hips gently against John’s, and John almost laughed. He shouldn’t be surprised, really, that Sherlock had figured this all out so quickly. That was Sherlock’s nature, after all. Why do something if you can’t do it well? Sherlock certainly did this well. John kept his eyes closed as Sherlock slunk down his body, kissing and licking at his neck, shoving his vest up to acquaint himself with John’s chest and stomach, picking out the major muscle groups and pressing kisses that felt suspiciously like their names against each one. By the time he reached John’s hips (‘pyramidalis’, kissed a few inches below his belly button,) John was breathing heavily and one hand had come to tangle in Sherlock’s curls. Sherlock peeled John’s pants down, achingly slowly, and John’s breath caught in his throat.

“Please,”

he choked out, and he could feel Sherlock’s smirk as one long finger ghosted up his length.

 

Sherlock had studied human sexuality briefly, directly after he reached puberty. At the time, he had found it base and, frankly, a bit disgusting. He had spent much more time studying human anatomy, which he found fascinating and not at all disgusting. He had attempted, once, to ‘get off’ with someone, but it had not gone particularly well, and Sherlock had had no interest in repeating the experience. He understood the concept, he knew the mechanics, but actually putting that into practice… And yet here he was, gathering saliva in preparation of taking John’s penis into his mouth. John’s penis, from which he urinated – had just urinated, actually. But this was what people _did_. This would make John _happy_.

 

Sherlock’s mouth on his cock drew a surprised yelp from John’s throat. Sherlock froze, eyes trained on John, who did his best to be reassuring as he tried to catch his breath.

“No, you’re fine, it’s fine, it’s just… _Jesus_ , Sherlock, I didn’t…”

He ran his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, sinking back against the pillows. Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at him, a silent question, and John nodded. Sherlock breathed in through his nose and went back to what he was doing – which was, incidentally a rather good job for never having done this before. There was the occasional scrape of teeth, but that might have been intentional, and it felt a bit good, actually, as John relaxed into it. For the most part, it was just soft lips and a warm mouth and that tongue… That tongue, which was clearly God’s gift to John Watson.

 

Sherlock very quickly realized _why_ people did this. This, having John in his mouth this way, the comforting weight against his tongue, the warmth of his skin, the _smell_ of him – this was in no way base or disgusting. This was something he wanted, wanted every day. John’s fingers carded through his hair gently, then less gently, and Sherlock redoubled his efforts, finding that if he scooted up a bit on his knees, he could take more of John into his mouth, and that made John clench his fingers against Sherlock’s scalp, pulling a tiny bit, and _that_ was just brilliant. He was hardly ready to stop when John gasped out his name, followed by a choked,

“Close. Now. It’s… Now.”

He rolled his eyes at the warning – he was perfectly capable of reading John’s body to know that he was going to ejaculate. John assumed he would want to pull back, wouldn’t want to swallow. Sherlock had already decided, however, in for a penny, in for a pound. He pushed as far down on John as he could and swallowed, and John came down his throat with a strangled shout.

 

This was not normal. John felt absolutely boneless as Sherlock crawled back up the bed (Christ, he even _crawled_ gracefully) and gathered John back into his arms.

“That was,”

Sherlock began, and John cut him off.

“Fantastic,”

he breathed, and Sherlock nudged him a bit, annoyed at being interrupted.

“Enjoyable,”

he finished, and John tried to laugh.

“Fucking hell, Sherlock.”

“Yes, well,”

Sherlock sniffed, blushing a bit.

“That was brilliant,”

John murmured, turning his face into Sherlock’s shoulder and closing his eyes. Sherlock was bony, true, all sharp angles and hard edges, but he smelled so _good_ and John honestly couldn’t bring himself to care about the way Sherlock’s collar bone dug into his cheek. He was _tired_ , and Sherlock was _his_ , had practically said as much, and all he wanted to do was fall asleep against the man he loved, because he was allowed to do that now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh God, this isn't any better than the last one.
> 
> Also, sorry, that thing about penises... That is literally my thought-process in moments like that.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No sex-type-stuff in this, just some cuddling.

When John fell asleep, Sherlock was a bit miffed. To be fair, he’d fallen asleep on John the night before, but honestly, John was supposed to be more experienced at this. John was supposed to be _better_ at this. John was _not_ supposed to fall asleep. Sherlock huffed impatiently and began the slow, careful process of extracting himself without waking John. It was, he supposed, good that John had fallen asleep, actually, because it gave him time to get up, to move, to go. Sherlock desperately needed to go somewhere. He needed a cigarette. He needed a cold shower. He needed John to promise he would never leave. He needed John to belong to him, and he needed John to say it. Probably not good.

 

John woke up in a cold sweat in an empty bed. He didn’t realize he was whispering to himself as he fought his way out of the sheets, found his discarded pants, tugged them on, and stumbled from the room.

“He’s fine,”

he whispered, several times.

“He’s just gone out. Didn’t want to wake me. He’ll come back, he’s fine.”

He practically fell into the sitting room, and Sherlock quirked an eyebrow but didn’t sit up. He was draped across the sofa, one sleeve rolled up, two nicotine patches on his forearm, fingers steepled in front of his chin. John sighed heavily, collapsing into his chair and rubbing his eyes.

“You were concerned,”

Sherlock drawled.

“Nightmare. You woke to an empty bed.”

He frowned, glancing over at John.

“I do not intend to leave.”

John nodded, drawing his knees up to his chest.

“It was stupid,”

he mumbled.

“I just… I’m no good, when I wake up like that. It’s fine.”

Sherlock extended one arm, holding his hand out, palm up. John sighed and stood, crossing the room to take Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock pulled him down onto the sofa, arranged John’s body on top of his own, wrapped his arms around John’s waist.

“I’m not going to leave you,”

he murmured into John’s hair.

 

Sherlock allotted 15% of his attention to John, running his fingers gently through blonde hair, allowing his nails to scrape lightly at the base of his skull, while he put the rest of his mind back to work. Lestrade had texted him with a 4 while he was out, and while he wouldn’t dignify such a low number with an actual appearance, he needed _something_ to focus on, besides John. The whole thing was mind-numbingly dull, aside from a very interesting snarl towards the end, and Sherlock was determined to work it out within the hour. He had twenty five minutes left. Should be simple.

 

John realized very quickly that he had lost Sherlock, but that was ok. Sherlock was still physically there, warm and bony underneath him, and he was still running his fingers through John’s hair. He likely wouldn’t have answered if John said his name, though. John took advantage of Sherlock’s distraction to study him. He rested his chin on Sherlock’s chest and watched as his eyes flicked about, seeing a thousand things, none of which were in the sitting room. None of which were in the flat, most likely. Occasionally, Sherlock would lift his free hand, twitching it here or there, dismissing something invisible, or bringing it closer. He squinted, he furrowed his brow, he shook his head, he bit his lip. Twice, he turned his head, as though someone had called to him from the side. Roughly fifteen minutes after he slipped off, he stiffened.

“Oh,”

he murmured, sitting halfway up.

“Oh!”

His hand shot out blindly, seeking his phone. John watched all this, bracing himself on the sofa to keep from falling off when Sherlock sat. Sherlock typed out a text quickly, then tossed his phone aside. Only after all of this did he notice John.

 

“Ten minutes to spare,”

Sherlock grinned, leaning down to kiss John.

“It was the niece,”

he kissed John again.

“Clearly committed by someone left-handed,”

another kiss. Listing deductions was even better when he could punctuate them with kisses. He would have to do this more often.

“So, the niece or the handyman,”

John grinned against his lips this time.

“The handyman claims he was at the house on Tuesday, but the slip in his pocket puts him at the racetrack,”

a bit longer, this time, accompanied by a teasing swipe of his tongue against John’s lower lip.

“University was closed on Tuesday, so the niece was home. Simple,”

he finished, and John beamed up at him.

“Brilliant.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Turns out that, as bad as I am at sexy-times, I'm even worse at deductions OH WELL.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh, look, a really long chapter full of sex.

Sherlock allowed John to untangle himself and rise from the sofa with much huffing and eye-rolling.

“I’ll be gone for ten minutes,”

John pointed out, heading for the toilet.

“We can’t be together every moment.”

Sherlock sighed grandly and turned to face the back of the sofa.

“Ten minutes,”

John called over his shoulder, closing the door behind himself and turning on the shower. He discarded his pants and, once the water was warm enough, stepped in. He washed quickly, then took a few minutes to just stand under the hot water. Out of nowhere, a giggle erupted from his lips.

“Sherlock Holmes came on my hand last night,”

he laughed, and once he started, he couldn’t stop.

“Sherlock Holmes gave me a blow job,”

his stomach was starting to hurt, and he sank down to sit on the floor of the bath, holding his sides.

“Sherlock bloody Holmes put his tongue in my mouth. He gave me a hickey. Sherlock Holmes.”

 

“John, it has been thirteen minutes now, why are you…”

Sherlock froze in the doorway, eyes trained on John’s form, currently curled up on the floor of the bath. John kept his eyes closed, stayed on the floor, didn’t even try to rein in the sobs that were still at least partially laughter. Sherlock came over, turning off the shower and kneeling down.

“You are… John, I…”

Sherlock was once again at a loss. John appeared to be laughing _and_ crying, and he hadn’t uncurled yet, he was still sitting on the floor of the bath, all golden skin and hard muscles and some kind of pain that Sherlock didn’t understand.

“Please,”

Sherlock tried, and John lifted his head. He scrubbed a hand across his face, and he shuddered.

“Sorry,”

his voice was hoarse.

“It’s just… It’s all a bit much, you know?”

Sherlock stood and gathered John into his arms, lifting him out of the bath and carrying him back into the sitting room.

“Christ, you’re strong,”

John murmured, and his breath hitched again.

 

Sherlock’s clothes were getting wet – ignore. Sherlock’s back was protesting dead-lifting John – ignore. John’s emotions were _loud_ , and they were _uncomfortable_ – ignore. John was warm and tense and shuddery in Sherlock’s arms, and he clung to Sherlock’s shirt with both hands.

“I’m sorry,”

his voice was ragged, and Sherlock couldn’t help but kiss his forehead. He wanted desperately to _fix_ this, but he didn’t know _how_.

“I never said it,”

John mumbled into Sherlock’s chest.

“Last night, I never said it. You said it, and I didn’t. I should have.”

“John, what on earth are you talking about?”

John tilted his head back, looked up and met Sherlock’s eyes.

“I didn’t say it, last night. I should have. I love you. I love you, too.”

 

Sherlock _growled_ and stood, still holding John, and strode purposefully to the bedroom. He set John gently on the bed, but his movements as he peeled his clothing off were frenzied.

“What’s wrong,”

John’s voice was quiet, and Sherlock’s eyes snapped to him, making him shrink back against the pillows. He tore his shirt off his shoulders and climbed onto the bed, crawling over John and leaning down to kiss his neck.

“I’m sorry,”

he murmured against John’s skin, and John shivered.

“I understand this is hardly the ideal time, but…”

He nipped sharply, and John gasped, winding his arms around Sherlock’s neck.

“I _need_ this, John. Need _you_. _Now_.”

“I…”

John’s voice cut out as Sherlock dipped down, lapping at John’s nipple.

“You _what_ ,”

Sherlock ground out, grazing his teeth gently across John’s flesh.

“I know,”

John managed, and Sherlock surged up to kiss him again.

 

Without breaking the kiss, Sherlock fumbled under the pillow for the lubricant and condoms he’d bought on his walk and hidden while John was still sleeping. When John realized what he was holding, he moaned into Sherlock’s mouth, and _that_ … Sherlock pulled off and ripped furiously at the foil packets, opening one through sheer force of will and rolling it on. He leaned back down to press kisses along John’s neck and across his shoulders as he opened the lubricant, squeezing far too much onto his fingers. John tangled one hand in Sherlock’s curls and tilted his hips up a bit, giving his permission. Sherlock took a steadying breath and began the slow process of preparing John Watson.

 

At first, Sherlock’s finger just felt wet. Then, as he began to press forward, it felt sharp, and then very large. John tried to focus on relaxing his muscles, but his breath was still uneven, there were still a few more sobs fighting to come out, and Sherlock’s lips weren’t quite enough of a distraction.

“Talk to me,”

John’s voice was hoarse and ragged, and even he heard the pleading note in it.

“John,”

that deep voice went straight to his chest, and he was suddenly able to take a deep breath.

“I am not a patient man, John,”

he continued, and John focused on his voice, just his voice and relaxing, and then Sherlock’s finger was slipping in and out easily, so he added a second.

“I dislike waiting. To be honest, I am bad at it.”

John let out half a laugh, and he felt Sherlock smile against his shoulder. The second finger wasn’t bad, it was fine. It was all fine.

“I have waited for this – for _you_ – longer…”

John gasped, a spike of pleasure shooting through him. Sherlock grinned and aimed for that spot again, adding a third finger.

“I want to wait for you, John. I want to do this when you’re ready. But I _can’t_. I can’t wait any longer.”

John grabbed his neck, pulling him down for a kiss.

“Now,”

he whispered, eyes closed.

“Do it now.”

 

It took every ounce of willpower he had to press in slowly. John was incredibly hot, unbelievably tight, and it was so _good_. Out of self-preservation, Sherlock allowed 65% of his brain to focus on chemical equations. He kept his eyes closed and slid forward bit by bit until he was fully sheathed, and John was breathing heavily against his neck, legs tight around Sherlock’s waist.

“Stay with me,”

John whispered, once he had his breath back, and Sherlock’s eyes flew open. Of course John knew. Reluctantly, Sherlock cleared away the equations, focused back on John, and he couldn’t help but dig his nails into John’s hip.

“John,”

he whined, and John caught his lips, rolling his hips in slow circles beneath him.

“It’s alright,”

John whispered, and Sherlock drew his hips back, slamming them forward. He was overcome with _need_ , and he rutted against John like an animal. His cheeks burned, and the noises John made beneath him only made it worse, only made his hips move faster, his nails bite deeper.

 

Sherlock was inside him, and it was amazing and perfect and it only hurt a little bit. Sherlock was lost to the world, so John freed one hand from Sherlock’s curls and slid it down between them, taking his cock in hand and matching his pace to Sherlock’s. When Sherlock realized what John was doing, he growled and knocked John’s hand away, replacing it with his own. John groaned, pressing his head back into the pillow. Sherlock leaned down, resting on his forearm and pressing his lips to John’s neck.

“Soon,”

John ground out, curling his fingers around Sherlock’s wrist.

“I know,”

Sherlock’s voice was just as strained as John’s. He tightened his hand around John’s cock, making him cry and arch up. That changed the angle, and when Sherlock slammed into his prostate, John closed his eyes and came, coating Sherlock’s hand and his own stomach. When he could force his eyes open, he caught Sherlock’s chin, meeting his gaze.

“Come,”

John’s voice was deep and commanding, and Sherlock’s hips snapped once, twice, and then stayed, pressed flush to John, and he growled his way through his own climax, biting viciously at his lip.

 

Once again, Sherlock’s brain went entirely offline after his climax. He opened his eyes a few minutes later to find that John had shifted Sherlock’s body off of his own, found something to wipe his semen from his stomach, and curled up around Sherlock. Sherlock turned clumsily, somehow managing to maneuver John underneath him. John’s eyes were half-closed as he looked up at Sherlock.

“It’s gone eleven,”

John yawned.

“Did Lestrade ever…”

Sherlock cut him off with his mouth on John’s, and John arched up into the kiss. When he finally pulled back, John chuckled.

“We’ll be up all night,”

his voice was soft, he was falling asleep.

“I can think of worse things,”

Sherlock rumbled, allowing his body to collapse to the side and cuddling John up against him. John laughed again, nuzzling into Sherlock’s chest.

“Are you gonna do that every time I tell you I love you,”

he asked, half-asleep.

“I look forward to finding out,”

Sherlock pressed a kiss to John’s forehead, and then John was asleep and Sherlock was close behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully that was less painful for you than it was for me.  
> Part 2 will start... Soon. Probably.


End file.
